Chloe waits a moment or two and then opens her door again. Everything outside on the landing is still, but a residue of something hangs in the air. The photograph of Angie sits on the windowsill, offering no answers. Chloe looks across at the closed bedroom door opposite. Who is in there? Maureen or Patrick? Should she knock? She clutches the neck of her pyjamas and feels the bristle of carpet under her bare feet as she steps onto the landing. She takes the stairs, carefully, silently, egged on by nothing more than curiosity. She’s almost at the bottom of the steps when she has a change in tact – she can’t make it look like she’s been eavesdropping. She coughs, landing with heavy footsteps. In the kitchen, it’s Patrick she finds, not Maureen. His elbows are resting on his folded newspaper, his head is in his hands. He reminds her in that moment of the man she first knew in the newspaper cuttings – he looks fragile, close to breaking.

Patrick turns his head a little, looking up at her through his elbows. Chloe is motionless, waiting for him to speak, but he says nothing, just turns back, shaking his head a little as he does, and sighing loudly.

Should she ask what has gone on between them? No, of course not.

Patrick gets up then. He turns, as if to say something, then changes his mind. Instead he snatches his newspaper from the table and grabs a bunch of keys from the hook by the back door as he leaves. A moment later, Chloe hears his car engine on the driveway. She stands in the cold hall until the chug of his exhaust heads away from the house.

For a second all is still, then above her she hears the creak of Maureen’s bedroom door.

‘He’s gone,’ Chloe calls up to her. ‘I just saw him go.’

Maureen creeps down the stairs.

‘It’s OK,’ Chloe reassures her.

In the kitchen, Maureen stares at Patrick’s chair. She fixes her hair, weaving a stray tendril back into her loose bun. But Chloe sees her hands are shaking, and she looks like she’s been crying.

‘Can I get you anything for breakfast, love?’ Maureen says. Her voice unsure, wavering.

‘What happened, Maureen?’ Chloe asks.

‘Don’t mind Patrick, he’ll be off to the bookie’s.’

Chloe sits down at the table while Maureen puts bread in the toaster, obviously more out of habit than hunger. Maureen leans on the sink, bending at the elbows to look up at the sky.

‘Looks like another grey day,’ she says. ‘It’s beautiful out here in the summer but in winter you just want to stay home. You’ll still be here in the summer, won’t you, Chloe?’